


Love, Deceit, and Feelings (Everything Explodes In The End)

by coldlikedeath



Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: Ben is a native Welsh speaker, M/M, Please be gentle with me, first fic, i should not be allowed to watch old episodes, there might be a part two to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/pseuds/coldlikedeath
Summary: John watches Ben drink after a case, and feelings come to the fore.





	Love, Deceit, and Feelings (Everything Explodes In The End)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native Welsh speaker, those parts were done with the help of Google. If anyone finds something wrong, lemme know, I'll fix it. First fic in this fandom, be nice to me?
> 
> There's not enough Barnaby/Jones in this world. I am also convinced Ben has green/hazel eyes.

* * *

I congratulate him on a case well solved, Nina Kustanova's death prevented, and watch as he downs the amber liquid in one. That is _not_ how you drink it.

  
Sipping mine slowly, I silently lament the fact that I can no longer watch Jones’ smooth throat swallow. That one seems to be all I'm getting.

  
“Shit.” I mutter, not realising I've spoken out loud.

  
“Sir?” Jones is on his third – he's necked his second without my seeing – and he cradles it, drinking it slower this time.  
His throat moves. My eyes linger there, on how good an old hoodie and tracksuit pants look on him. I didn't mind him when he was in the lake, either.

  
“Sir?” Jones probes again. I tear my eyes away.

  
“Yeah?”

  
“We got him, sir. And we saved Nina. That's got to count for something, surely?” He scratches his neck lightly.

  
“Yes, Jones. Yes, it does, but I can't help thinking of the people we couldn't stop him hurting. The families. And all this over a bloody bird with a ridiculous bloody name?” I set my glass down with a little more force than is needed, and reach for the bottle.

  
Jones laughs, almost stopping my breath. _This is ridiculous_ , I admonish myself, _he's straight,_ there's _been no signs. Get a hold of yourself, Barnaby._  
Jones. Does. Not. Like. You. Like. That. I eschew the glass, raising the bottle to my lips with a sigh.

  
“Because of that bloody bird.” Jones echoes my words.

  
“That bloody bird.” I reply. “Who would've thought birdwatching was so competitive?!”

  
“Who the hell sits in a bush for hours on end to tick a bird off a list?” His face shows me what he thinks of that particular hobby.

  
“Bit like us, Jones.” I say, passing the bottle to him. He takes it from me.

  
“We sit watching for hours, tick our suspects off til we find the one did it.”

  
“And now we have.” He wraps his lips around the neck of the bottle, and I sweat a little more. The station is still warm, someone must have left the heating on. Or at least, that's my excuse for loosening my tie, and undoing the top two buttons of my shirt. On an afterthought, I pull off my jacket, throwing it carelessly on the desk.

I don't miss where Jones’ eyes flicker as he hands back the bottle.

  
“Sir,” he says softly, “you can't think like that.”

  
“If I'd clicked about Nina’s circlet sooner. If I'd watched that video sooner. Or Michael's playing.” I sigh.

  
“How were you to know, though, sir?” Jones looks over at me, his green-hazel (more hazel than green) eyes a little hazy.

  
“I didn't, Jones. Sarah did. I kept humming it because it was stuck in my head, we started talking about the case, and she told me how _Swan Lake_ ended.”

  
“Oh, c’mon, you can't beat yourself up over not knowing that!” he laughs softly.

  
“Er, I'm not, thank you, Jones!” I shoot him a look, a laugh dying in my throat as I realise how close he is. “What about the families?” I croak, my voice rough.  
I'm not usually like this – I can put the most horrific things behind me and seemingly be fine the next day. But sometimes I overthink stuff. That's the psychology degree talking. Or the alcohol. Entirely possible it's both. I sigh. “The families, they'll be a mess for years…”

  
“That's not our concern, though, is it, sir?” Jones muses as he takes a drink and hands me the bottle again. I watch as a drop misses his lips and trails down his neck.

  
“Perhaps it should be.”

  
I'm just trying to divert my thoughts from wanting to lick that drop from his neck.

  
“What,” he snorts, “you wanna go into Family Liaison now? Jesus, they'd love you…”

  
“Lord, no,” I volley back, “it'd take someone like you, Jones!”

  
He splutters. I laugh, raising the bottle to my mouth and tipping my head back.  
I'm just imagining the look Jones gives me.

 

Some time later, thoroughly drunk and having pilfered Jones’ own whiskey stash – a trick I taught him, thank you – I'm still on what I – we – could've done better.  
The truth is that I don't know.

  
“Hey. sir. Hey.” Jones drags me from my thoughts.

  
“Yeah?”

“You were a bit lost there.”

  
“Wondering why the hell we’re always too late, Jones, that's all.”  
He sighs, probably thinking _we've been over this, sir. Really, we have_. “Well, there's always something we could have done differently, said differently, if we'd had more time, more intelligence, more of everything.…”

  
“Always the way.” I mutter, alcohol making me a hell of a lot more candid with him about this than I'd normally be.

 

  
“But?” He takes another drink, cocks an eyebrow at me.

  
“I don't know where we went wrong this time and it will irk me until I figure it out.” I get up rather unsteadily and pace the floor, trying to think. After a few minutes of wobbling and having thumped my shin off the desk twice – realising that perhaps I'm drunker than I think – I stop, turning to face Jones square in the eye. I walk closer.  
“ _Swan Lake_ , Jones. Kirov. Tchaikovsky! We should've nicked Michael the first time we heard the clarinet!” I take hold of his arms, and notice that he doesn't pull away.

  
“But why?” he asks.

  
“Because all we ever heard him play was _Swan Lake_ , and he played for Nina’s final gala performance, didn't he? So it would serve as a reminder of her every time he played it.”

  
He clicks his fingers, the motion sending him off balance somehow.

  
“Steady,” I laugh as I hold him upright.

  
“Even if she was dead, if she was the black swan and thereby corrupted, the music would be her epitaph…” He looks into my eyes, seemingly trying to see if I understand. I get it.

  
“Even if he never caught the circlet.” Jones whispers. I nod, and shake my head, confirming his theory.  
He staggers slightly, from the alcohol or the realisation we've just come to, I don't know.

  
It doesn't matter; I pull him closer to stop him almost falling, bringing his body in closer contact with mine.

  
I didn't mean to do that.

  
I can feel his heart thumping through his thin shirt, his sweat is sharp in my nose.

  
He is not trying to get away. He is not pushing me away.

  
“Sir…" Jones’ eyes are unreadable. For being so good at reading people (and Tom taught me a few tricks from his MI6 days), I can't tell what he will do next.

  
"No, this isn't right." What the hell am I doing? I take my hands from his arms, stepping backwards and shaking my head. “I can’t.” I say,  more to myself than Jones. “I can’t. I can’t.”  
Oh, bollocks. I’m walking down the corridor, trying not to run, before I know it – need to get away – and my pounding heart covers all else. But if I run, he'll think I hate him, and I'll fall flat on my face.

  
There is no way Jones likes me like that whatsoever. I'm his superior, for god's sake!

  
Maybe he likes that idea. Oh, god. I slump against the wall, covering my face and try not to faint, or give myself a heart attack. Though the latter would be preferable right now. I'm so warm. Some idiot did leave the heating on; I can feel it thrummimg through the pipes at my back.

  
“Sir?” A quiet not-quite-sober voice at my ear. I don't know what to say. Jones is quieter than normal, and at any moment I expect an argument.

  
“Yes, Jones?” Muffled through my sweating palms, I don't look up. If I look up, I don't know what I'll see in his eyes. If anything. Don't know which is worse.

  
“Why are you running away?” His voice is soft, the Welsh lilt creeping in, echoing down the empty corridor.

  
“I'm doing nothing of the sort, Jones.” I am, I know I am, but I will lie through my back teeth as long as I don't have to admit I'm in love with my sergeant. If the Super heard, I'd be shackled to a desk for the rest of my natural life. Or transferred to Tristan da Cunha. Mostly the same thing in the force, those two.

  
Jones sighs, his hands gentle on my wrists. “You are, and you're denying it to boot.” He slowly coaxes my hands down from my face. “Why don't you tell me what it is?”

  
He's discarded his jacket, his shirt clinging to him. He keeps his hands on my wrists, warm and strong. I've dreamt about Jones’ hands holding my wrists, my hands holding his, the contrast of his skin against white sheets…

  
Couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to.

  
He may not have the tricks I have, but Jones can read people in his own way.

  
I taught him.

  
And now he's reading me, and I fear if he looks too hard he’ll discover I'm not the DCI he thought I was.

  
“Sir.” Jones’ hands are on my chin, tipping my face up so he can look at me. I can't breathe; my eyes keep darting to his open shirt. Four buttons. Damn.

  
“What the hell are you doing, Jones?” I try and imbue my voice with heat, but it's not there.

  
“Trying to help a friend who's in clear distress.” he says softly, but his eyes say something different.

  
“I'm not–!”

  
I get no further as Jones pushes my wrists above my head with one hand, presses his body into mine, cups my face with the other hand and kisses me hard, forcefully, like he knows what my secret is. I can't breathe, can't think, this is wonderful, I must have had that heart attack after all because there's no way this is real…  
Jones releases my wrists and pulls away all at once, panting. His cologne is in my nose, mixed with the smell of alcohol and sweat.  
He stares me down. “Why–why are you running away from me?”

  
“I'm not, Jones.” I protest feebly.

  
“Then why in the hell did I find you here?”

  
My hazy mind has to concede he has a point. “I–” … don't know how to finish that sentence.

  
“What's wrong, John?” he whispers. “What's so wrong that you can't tell me?”

  
“I–” I stumble, and again I stop. That's the first I've ever heard him use my first name.

  
“It's wrong, Ben.” I whisper, my voice bouncing off the corridor walls. The lights continue their ceaseless hum, and my back is burning by the second.

  
“What is, sir? This?” Ben presses his full length against me, kissing me softer, gentler than before. He pulls away again, but does not step back, a small smile on his lips.

  
“Ben.” I gasp.

  
“Is it wrong?” he whispers again, his thoughts, his desire on clear display to me. I can't deny that he already knows mine, visible from the beginning as they were.

  
“Sarah-”

  
“- isn't here, and probably wouldn't mind if she knew.” he murmurs in my ear. His teeth nip at my earlobe, his arms hot around my waist. My arms find their way around his and I lean half on him, half on the wall that I wish was not the temperature of the Sun.

  
“Ben.” Something sounding suspiciously like a moan escapes my throat. “Ben.”

  
“What do you want, sir?”

  
“Fuck…” I hiss. How the hell didn't I know that worked? Jesus… I push into him. “You. I want you.”

  
Hopefully we won't be the talk of the station in the morning.  
Ben tugs my hand and I forget my thoughts, following him back to the incident room.

  
My jacket still lies on the desk, Ben’s on the chair. I rifle through mine for my mobile and keys, making sure they're there, and sling my jacket on, texting Sarah as I do to say I'm crashing at Ben's.  
Ben is calling for a taxi, trying his very best not to sound completely wasted. Probably the reason why he's also clinging to a table so hard his knuckles have gone white. I try and smother a laugh unsuccessfully, clinging to the nearest thing to keep myself upright as well. Ben throws a glare at me, and I snort, laughing harder.  
“Ydw,” I hear him say, “there. Alright.” He ends the call, works hard to find his trouser pocket, and turns towards the door. “Where’s the exit?”

  
“Is that an honest question, Jones?” I laugh-slur.

  
“Uh… efallai.” he mutters, finding the door and swaying through it. I follow him.

  
“Ble mae'r drws?”

  
“Huh? Don't speak Benjaminese.”

  
“Byddwch, ’n annhymerus’ yn eich dysgu.” This is whispered in my ear as we stumble into a wall.

  
“Oh, sorry.” I mutter.

  
“That was a wall, sir.”

  
“You're a wall.” I shoot back, and promptly fall through a pane of glass.

  
“That’s a door.” Ben laughs. We keep laughing as we tumble into the taxi, and Ben does a very good impression of someone sober and competent as he recites his address.

 

It takes Ben several tries to get the keys in his door, let alone twist them, giggling all the while as he curses in Welsh, and neither of us worry about waking his neighbours.

  
“Jones, what _are_ you babbling about?” Leaning against the wall watching the skylight as he fights with the door and mutters is actually quite pleasant. "Uh!" I squawk indignantly as I'm dragged bodily inside, the slam of the door coinciding with the thump of my back against the wall.

  
“Christ, Jones!" I groan.

  
He says nothing, just buries his head in my neck, kissing gently. I feel his breath against my skin, but don't know what he says.

  
"Sir…" he breathes.

  
"Ben…" My hands are pulling him closer, wandering his back, relishing the smooth skin. He shivers, running a hand up my side. I bury my head in his neck, enjoying the fact we've got this far.  
Might kill each other tomorrow, but that's tomorrow.

  
Right now, I can smell Ben’s sweat and remnants of his cologne, feel his body moving against mine with every shaky breath, our hearts thumping together and his eyes locked on mine, green eyes blazing with hunger. I need him. Does he need me in the same way?  
Our hands fall over each other as I trace his chest, his fighting with my shirt buttons.

  
“Argh!” he growls, giving it up. I smirk, pushing us away from the wall.

  
“It's so much easier to undo buttons when you're wearing them, Jones.”

  
His eyes are riveted on my hands as I slowly undo the remaining buttons, letting my shirt hang from my shoulders. Our ties are long discarded, deep in pockets. They could come in handy…

  
The hitch of breath says so much, his pupils dilate and enlarge.

  
“S-sofa?” Ben stammers.

  
“I don't remember the last time I fucked someone on their sofa,” I muse.

  
"You never took Sarah on your sofa?" Ben leads the way, dropping his jacket and unbuttoning his own shirt as he goes, discarding them onto the floor somewhere. I imagine tracing his back with my tongue.

  
"Not in ages. But now? I want to have you on yours."

  
Jesus, the alcohol really is loosening inhibitions. Fuck it.

  
Ben quirks his mouth in that gorgeous way he does, and drops onto the sofa. "Take me." he says.

  
"Have you…?" I shift closer.

  
"Under the sofa."

  
"Unsurprising, but no, I mean…" I place a hand on his chest to make my point, as unthreateningly as possible.

  
"Oh! I-I… yeah. Yeah. I have, sir.”

  
I don't miss the blush though. Mustn't be recent. At least he knows something, I'm just making it up as I go along.

  
Ben takes my hand, kissing my fingers, smiling at me. His lips, his mouth, this is insane, I want it all but… I don't want him to think I'm just a dirty old man.

  
“Sir,” Ben whispers, “I can hear you thinking. Stop.” He kisses the back of my hand gently, and pulls me into his arms to reach my mouth.

  
He tastes of alcohol and smoke, of desire and maybe even fear. I wouldn't hurt him unless he wanted it, and even then he'd have to beg.

  
Gently, I ease him back so he's lying on the sofa, sweating skin sticking to the leather – his body is almost the full of it – and I gaze into an ocean of sea green, hazy, and _is that desperation?_

  
Ben pants as I stroke his soft cheek, lips parted; he licks and sucks at my fingers as they wander, teasing everything and promising nothing.

  
"What d'you want, Ben? I know what I want – but I need to know what you're okay with." I don't want to hurt him unless he specifically asks me to. Nor do I wish to force him into anything.

  
"Sir…" he rasps. "May I kiss you again?"

  
"Yes, Jones. Fuck, yes." Gathering him into my arms, his arms wrap around my neck and he draws me down for a chaste, tender kiss that soon turns anything but.

  
He pulls away to breathe, eyes dark, his chest heaving. “Sir… you can do anything you want…”

  
“Ben,” husky, rasping, “Ben, I'm an old man, son; please stop trying to kill me.”

  
“The Chief wouldn't appreciate my killing one of our own, would he?” He looks up through his eyelashes, a finger trailing down my chest; that finger then pops into his mouth. It's got my sweat on it. “But,” he continues as if he hasn't just sucked his finger in the most suggestive way possible at me, “it'd be a good way to go. Wouldn't it?”

  
“You, Jones,” I pin him down on the sofa, “are a cheeky little brat! And I aim to show you just how cheeky you are.”

  
“Clearly, Sir, you're not that old.” He winks at me, nodding down. That sarcastic, sometimes snot-nosed little oik fucking winks at me.

  
“You'll find I'm not, no…” Thrusting hard against him to make my point earns a sharp gasp of pleasure and a whine of need.  
_“_ Os gweli di’n dda…” he moans. “Sirrrrr…”  
Ben’s eyes snap open, wide eyed, and I feel his deep moan in my bones.

  
“Rwyf am gyffwrdd â chi…!” He whimpers, trying to thrust, but my weight holds him down. I smirk, biting his neck. “In time,” I breathe in his ear. “In time.” Stroking his wrists, I kiss him gently. “How long, Benjamin? Tell me how long you wouldn't let yourself see it…"

  
“Since I started, sir.”

  
“Seven years.” I whisper, taken aback for a moment. How has it been so long?

  
“Seven years.” he confirms, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

  
“My god. Why didn't you ever say?”

  
“Same reason as you. I didn't want to lose my job.”

  
Stroking his cheek, I say nothing, but the way he nuzzles into my palm warms my heart.

  
“You're so beautiful, Ben. So beautiful.”

  
He shakes his head. “And you're soppy, Sir.”

  
“Watch it!” I thrust gently, stealing his breath. He gasps.  
"More, Sir…”

  
Letting go of his wrists and wrapping my arms around his back, I rub against him slowly, determinedly. “Like this?”

  
“Ah… fi angen ‘ch… oh god, I want you so much. I want to touch you so badly…” His nails are sharp as they rake my back, digging deep enough to make me bleed. "I've dreamt of you, of screaming your name, of how you'll feel inside me… ahhhh!”

  
I hold him closer, feeling his heart thump against mine. Taking a deep breath, I stroke a hand down Ben’s side, slowly, playing around his ribs – he shivers delightfully – and when my hand hits fabric, I stop.

  
Ben’s eyes are closed, his face relaxed in pleasure. Pleasure _I'm giving him._ His long fingers play on my back, wandering down. I try not to flinch; maybe I should've drank a lot more…

  
Ben nuzzles my neck, whispering, “We don't have to. If you're uncomfortable, I'll stop, I won't push you.”

  
“No, go on.” I whisper. “I trust you.”

  
Jones gasps sharply at the unexpected words, the – I assume – unexpected tenderness in them. I hold his face in my hands, looking into his eyes. They're stormy, his soul wrestling with himself evidently, though he tries his hardest to veil them from me. He never could.

  
“Sir.” Ben pleads.

  
“Hasn't anyone ever said that to you before?” Almost like I'm in an interview, but it's the only way I can stop my voice from shaking.  
Ben shakes his head, and I pull him in tight, cradling him, overcome with a sudden wash of sadness; I understand now why none of his relationships worked.

  
“Sir…!” Ben growls into my neck, scraping it with his teeth. I grip his hair, pulling.

  
“Ahhh!” He winces a little, and grins at me. “I… kinda like that.” The blush rises again. “But not too hard.”

  
I tug again, and he moans, eyes rolling, pulling me down, thrusting desperately. One last pull, and I trail my lips down his neck, his side (boy needs to eat more), sharp ribs down to his thighs…

  
“Please…” A whine from above me. Nuzzling into his groin, I inhale – he smells of sweat, but pleasantly. Ben groans bone deep, breathing ragged. Licking his inner thighs gently produces another whine. He smells musky, masculine, good. Another lick and his breathing stutters, his body writhes against me. “Please!”

  
“Please?”

  
_“Os_ gweli di’n dda _…”_

  
“Have you worked out yet…” sliding up his sweating body, running my hands over his chest as my tongue follows them, watching his eyes widen as he pulls me closer, panting, “that I'll…” a snatched kiss, a desperate kiss, a swipe of his soft cheek, and he cries out, “ … that I'll kiss you every time you slip into your native tongue?”

  
_“Rwy'n_ gwybod nawr _.”_ he husks.

  
“Oh, God, Ben. I-I-whoa-ohhhhh!” My stuttering attempt to express myself is cut short as Ben rolls us over in one fluid movement, his lips on mine, taking the brunt of the thump onto the floor on his back, rolling again so that his lithe form is above me now, and his mouth… his mouth is tickling down there, he isn't serious, I would never expect him to… _holyfuckhe’sgotmycockinhismouthohmygoddidIremembertowashdowntherethismorningsweetmotherofJesusthatisnotwhatImeantbyeating!_

  
Breathing deepening, my hips rise with my pulse, and Ben chokes.  
“Jesus, I-I'm sorry… it's been a while since…” I'm trying to pull away, to help him breathe, but he won't let me, his big hands on my arse, keeping my hips in place.

  
“Ahhhh, Ben… Ben, I'm… uhhh!” I try to scrabble away, anything to tell Jones I'm so close, I'm gonna… but he pulls off at the right moment, delivering a brutal squeeze to my shaft to delay anything.

  
“Fuck! You little bitch, that hurt!” I growl, tugging his hair as a reprimand.

  
He looks up, lips swollen and beautiful, eyes blazing. “It's supposed to…” licking his bottom lip slowly, breathing out the last syllable, a cheeky smile growing on his face, “Sir.”

  
Leaning up, gripping his strong shoulders, pulling him down so my neck doesn't start complaining, and we are nose to nose, I can see the flecks of different colours in his hazel eyes, and almost hear his heart.

  
The slight smack to his cheek brings a wide-eyed gasp, but not one of disgust or horror.

  
“Don't get cheeky with me, boy.” My voice lowers, almost rumbling. “I'm still your DCI.”

  
He grins, his mouth teasing, biting, surprisingly gentle on mine, hands soft as they roam my body.

  
“Ben.” Whispered into his neck. “Oh, fuck, Ben, your hands.”

  
“They feel good, sir?” Ben nuzzles into my neck, licking the sweat there. “I've wanted to do that for such a long time; I used to dream about this.” he whispers.

  
“Tell me.” My fingers play on his sweating back, over the cleft of his arse, dancing up his back, and he sighs contentedly. He whines softly when I run them down his back again, panting.

  
“I dreamt about… about-” He swallows, screwing up courage.

  
Taking his face gently to kiss him, I smile. “I've dreamt about this too.”

  
The hazel eyes widen almost comically.

  
“I…” He nuzzles my neck, the words slightly muffled but I hear them nonetheless. “I dreamt about holding you, about telling you how I feel, about…”

  
He looks up. “Even when we've been at crime scenes, when you stride in and just take control. I've wanted to take you in my arms to celebrate when we've solved it, to comfort you when it hasn't or you're rattled by what you see. _Ni_ allaf wneud hynny _,_ fodd bynnag _,_ alla i _?_ There's been so many lonely nights, so many meaningless nights…”

  
My heart clenches. “Benjamin. You can. I wouldn't have ever pushed you away.” I whisper. The unspoken cleaves my heart in two, chest tightening as it hits me what our fear has done.

  
“But you did, John. Sir. When I found you at the wall.”

  
God, he looks so lost and confused. And I caused this. My chest constricts.

  
“I was scared, Ben. Scared of what I felt for you – I thought you'd push me away. I was prepared for you to tell me you wanted to transfer.”

  
Ben sighs softly. “Mae'n ddrwg _gen_ i, Sir.”

  
“Ssshhh, ssshhh, ssshhh. It's alright.” Stroking his cheek gently, our lips meet, soft and slow - atonement for the time wasted, the pain caused.

  
“How can I make it up to you? How can I say I'm sorry for the pain, for the lonely nights?”

  
_“Byddwch_ gyda _mi.”_ he sighs.

  
“I have no idea what that means, but I'm here. I'm here.”

  
"Be with me, John." he whispers, the last of his defences down. "I'm tired of hiding how much I want you. I’m tired of the hurt I feel.”

Oh, Benjamin. Now is not the time to remind him that there's a serious power imbalance here. I am his superior, I really shouldn’t be allowing this - but this can be dealt with when we can think straight.

  
If we don’t murder each other in the morning when we remember what we’ve done.

  
Kissing his delectable mouth, my tongue seeks entry, and he willingly grants it. My hands cup his face, fingers stroking his soft, sweat-damp cheek.

  
“Show me what you want.” I murmur, the sweep of breath over his ear making him shiver.

  
Ben’s mouth suckles gently at my neck, my head tipping back to allow him more access. He climbs into my lap, pressing against me, all gangly limbs and desire. I can’t help but respond, but then Ben stills.

  
Fuck. Fuck, maybe that’s too far. I run a hand through his hair, thinking that will settle him. It does in my head.

  
He turns to me, gazing into my eyes. They’re surprisingly clear, but we’re still going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning.  
His long-fingered, delicate looking hands cup my cheek as mine cupped his, and then his soft lips are pressing against mine. Slow and gentle, no hurry - there will be time for that if he wants - moaning softly into my mouth.

  
I could get lost in his kisses, and why not? He tastes of whiskey and smoke, and I run my fingers through the sweat on his neck, moving down to touch his chest, pull him closer, kiss deeper, like I’ll die if we stop.

  
He pants into my mouth, and there’s a whimper. From me? Ben? No idea, don’t care. Someone wants more, that wish will be granted.  
Maybe tonight is all we’ll ever have. I pull him impossibly closer, trying to chase the thought away, but he runs his hands over my back as if he knows what I’m thinking and is trying to soothe me.  
_Oh, Ben. Why didn’t we do this sooner?_

  
He pulls away for a breath, his lips red and kiss-swollen. A cheeky wink - he’s going to be the death of me, I swear - and he bites my neck gently. He wriggles in my lap at the same time, moaning in abandon at the feeling.

  
“Get up.” I whisper. “And strip the rest of the way.” It’s quiet, but Ben does not hesitate. Good. He knows what’s good for him. I do the same, pushing my trousers and boxers out of the way, and beckon him down onto my lap once more. He sinks down gracefully, happily, gasping as his hole touches my cock.

  
“Ahhh…” his voice shakes with need, maybe surprise too. Maybe this is nothing like he ever imagined. The unwritten rule has been broken.

  
“Soon.” I murmur. Maybe. The last time I was with another man, I was twenty and at university up in Durham. It only lasted six months, and was mostly sex, but it provided a handy case study for one of my Psychology papers. It was a long, long time ago now.  
But you don’t forget how, do you? Maybe you do… and I don’t want to hurt Ben by doing something wrong. He’s been hurt enough. I want to make this good for him, but have no idea how.

  
He takes the lead from me, wrapping his arms and legs around me and rocking back and forth, rubbing against me. _Jesus fucking Christ!_ I moan softly, with him, gaze into the beautiful greenish-brown eyes as he brings himself to the edge - and stops. It’s a hell of an effort, but he stops.

  
Sliding my hands up his back to support him as he leans back a little and scrabbles under the sofa. It gives me a wonderful view of the strength within him, how his muscles move under that lithe, tanned skin, his nipples in peaks, cock hard and begging for touch. I ache to taste him.

  
Lube and condoms fly past my head to land on the sofa beside us; laughing gently as I pull Ben upright again, I gaze into eyes dark with passion and alight with audacity and surprise.

  
“Only if you want! I won’t make you.” he clarifies hurriedly. Must think I’m hesitating. I am not.

  
“I want,” I affirm, “but sweetheart,” - he looks wide-eyed at that - “you need to want too; I won’t coerce you.”

  
The warm bundle of nerves in my lap shivers. “You’re not coercing me; if anything I’m coercing you!” He’s frightened I might make a complaint, get him transferred for inappropriate behaviour. _Shit, I didn't mean for my words to do that!_

  
“You're not coercing me at all, Ben. You kissed me, remember? I had to let you make the first move.” I stroke his hair, kiss his forehead. “And I want this too.”

  
“Not cos you're drunk? Or pity me? I can't seem to hold a relationship down to save my life.” His features twist, and I pull him close, tucking his head under my chin.  
Oh no. Hell, no, I'm not letting him feel sorry for himself tonight.

  
“We may be drunk, but I do not pity you.” I move slowly underneath him, watching his face change from sorrow to arousal.

  
“That's good.” he gasps, “that's good. Oh, my god… rywf eisiau… please sir!” Burying his head into my neck, Ben licks the sweat he finds there. I coax him back out to look at me; our eyes blown wide with desire, I'll do anything he wants me to – this has been years in the making.

  
“Can I… will you…?” He gasps, trying to pull himself together enough to speak, but I will not, cannot put words in his mouth.  
Yes, I'm naked on my sergeant’s sofa, cradling his equally naked form on my lap, but anything he may say to me must be his want.  
As much as I might want to order him to suck my cock til I come down his throat.

  
“Tell me what you want from me, Jones.” Running a finger lightly down his bare chest, there is still the possibility Ben may come to his senses, but it's one I'm willing to take. His eyes lock on mine, dark, lips parted for a breath.

  
“You, John.” he whispers, arms curling around my neck. “I want you to take me to bed, to hold me, to lo–” His breathing hitching, he's said too much.

  
“Get up.”

  
Faithfully he rises, well taught from the off. I follow the movement, not as graceful nor as toned, and he smiles, turning, looking back as if to make sure I'm still there. He turns back to retrieve the condoms and lube from where they sit.

  
“I'm just making sure my world is stable on its axis before I move, Ben. You don't want me flat on my arse on your living room floor.” I joke. “Oh. Wait.” Gazing upwards and placing a finger on my chin as if I'm thinking, I laugh. “You already did.”

  
I feel the heat from his cheeks as I follow him, but a smile is there too. His room is big, the bed unmade; I try not to think about who may have touched him, held him in it last…

  
“You're thinking, John.” Soft and unsure again, hands on my face, is he worried? He's worried. Time to show him he shouldn't be. Walking him slowly to the bed, hands everywhere, Ben bites gently at my neck.

  
“There's time enough for that, Ben.”

  
He groans.

  
“If you want it.” I murmur in his ear, licking the shell.

  
He falls onto the bed, pulling me atop him. “Urgh!”

  
“I'm not that heavy!” I snort, rolling off him just in case I actually am.

  
“No! No.” he pants, pulling me back. “Stay. I…” A soft blush creeps from his cheeks downwards. “I like it. Your… it feels good. You-" He gazes at me. "-you want to be here."

  
He holds tighter, snuggling in for a moment; the feeling of it is wonderful, and if I was not married… Ben's breathing stutters in my ear, hot and husky and desperate, as he wrestles me onto my back, scattering my thoughts.

  
"That how you want to play it, hmm? It's not that easy, Jones." I counter with a hard thrust to send him sprawling back again, pushing close, hot and needy next to him. He laughs, heavy with desire as we wrestle around the bed, giggling and snorting like kids, the air heavy with sweat and need, hands everywhere as we unashamedly explore damp skin and what feels good.

  
And I gaze into hazel eyes dark with want, my sergeant gazing down at me, unveiled us both, lust and longing there to see.

  
“John,” he whispers, stroking my hair back; I close my eyes, content, and his fingers play over my face, gentle and soft.

  
“You're so… god.” He sighs. “Incredible. So handsome. I… we’ve got this far, you’re letting me touch you like this… why, sir? Why?” His voice almost breaks with the question, so much need and pain and longing finally spilling over to be realised. “Why,” he whispers, “when you’ll reach your senses in the morning, and push me away?”

  
My eyes snap open with Ben’s shaky inhale, just in time to see a glimmer in his eyes.

  
_It means that much to him. I mean that much to him._

“I’ll resign, I’ll transfer, I’ll-” He chokes the words out, each one killing him, the rest unsaid. _If it means I get this one night._

  
“No. No, Benjamin, no.” Whispered, frantic. _Don't leave me, Ben, I need you too._ Sweeping him into my arms, warm olive skin and hard, toned muscle, lips begging to be kissed - _take away his pain_ \- he moans into my mouth as I pour all the years of need I’ve held into that one kiss.

  
“Please, Ben.” I rasp against his lips, “please. Show me.”

  
Long-fingered hands play over my sweating, heaving chest as he plays them up and down, gripping my wrists hard - “Ah, you like that…”

  
“You’re wicked!”

  
“I learnt from the best, sir!”

  
“What, Tom?!”

  
“Well, I wouldn’t do this with him, now, would I?!” - pushing me to lie flat as he wriggles into position, snagging lube and a condom from where he is.

  
“I want this. I need this. I’ve dreamt of this, for far too long, I need you.” Husky, deep, his voice goes straight to my cock. Our eyes lock, his holding the universe, all our secrets revealed, Jesus Christ I can’t breathe…

  
Running my tongue over dry lips, I watch my young sergeant’s eyes follow the motion hungrily. He’s like a wolf and I am his helpless prey, and there’s nothing more needed.

  
“Have me.” I think I’ve hissed something to that effect, can’t be sure. He is. “Are you open?”

  
“Not really,” he growls, rolling the condom on one handed, “but it doesn’t fucking matter - I need to feel you rip me apart!”

  
“Ben,” I growl back, but a split second too late, I’ve breached him, he’s forcing me deep inside him, and he moans deep and low and all I can do is hold on and pray he doesn’t do himself damage and lose myself in the tight hot heat of him.

  
He gasps like he’s drowning and all I can focus on is him, his heat and how desperate he looks and his eyes are wild with need and want and, “Uhhhhhh…”

  
For all my wondering about who held him last, it comes to nothing as he pulls himself up, his arse like a vice, and drops down with a howl, neediness permeating every breath, and I’m opening him again and again and this is exactly how Nick used to feel on me when we were young and desperate and unashamed…

  
_“Uhhhhh, Siiiirrrrrrrr…”_ Ben pants, ragged and broken (he sounds like that because of me), bouncing on me, throwing his head back, running his hands through sweat drenched hair slowly, oh so slowly as our eyes lock (the hazel is almost obliterated from his eyes), he moaning softly and baring his neck, Adam’s apple heaving as he gasps for breath, matching my dragged ones as my hands chase sweat down his chest, over his ribs and stomach to stop at and grip his bony hips so hard I know there’ll be bruises after and Ben does not care; he screams as I thrust, holding him down, he actually screams for me. Again. Again. Again. What a sound.

  
“Oh, god, sir, sir, sir, _please_!” he almost sobs as I do my very best to ruin my beautiful sergeant. One could say I have.

  
“Say it, Benjamin! Say it!” I growl, spearing him hard, robbing him of breath - my name emerges as a breathless squeak.  
“John.”

  
“Again!” A deep growl.

  
“John!” he moans.

  
“Louder!” A hiss.

  
“John!” He gasps it towards the ceiling, holding my shoulders tight for balance.

  
“Scream it, Ben, you know you want to!” A deep snarl, thrusting harder, pulling him closer, holding him tight because if he falls apart I want to keep him safe, for him to know he is safe…

  
_“Oh, god, John! Yes, yes, yes! Ahhhh,_ sirrrrr _! So good! Ugh, god, John,_ yessss _!”_ The last word is a cry, and I fill the condom full, fast and hard and hot, calling for him as he did for me, and Ben screams harder to feel it, a broken scream as he’s torn apart and held together all at once, my fingers gripping his shaft tight.

  
“Up.” I murmur, patting his hip gently. He pulls slowly off, groaning with need.

  
“Why…?”

  
“Sssh, you’ll see.” It’s been a while since I tied a condom without looking - or spilling - but I throw it towards the bin without giving a damn where it lands.

  
Luck, then, that it lands where it’s meant to. Ben glares at me, but I kiss it from him as I coax him towards me.

  
“I haven’t-” he starts.

  
“Yes, I know, that’s why I’m doing this.” Coaxing him further towards my mouth. “C’mere.”

  
Opening my mouth, he gets the point; settling in and still making sure I can breathe, I close my eyes and fall into the sensation as my hands find Ben’s arse to pull him closer, settle him deeper down my throat - no other way and that’s how I like it…

  
“Are- are you sure, sir? I don’t want to choke you or hurt you!”  
_Stop worrying, boy!_ I smack his arse cheek hard, earning a yelp and a snarl of “Alright… if that’s how you want it…” as he gazes at me.  
He pushes deep, choking me, my strangled moan enough.

  
“You do want it.” Ben hisses, dark with passion as he pulls out slightly.

  
“Uh huh.” Nothing else to say.

  
Ben cups his hands behind my head and thrusts; I hollow my cheeks, swallowing him down, letting him take what he wants from me.

  
I can barely breathe but Ben won’t let me pass out.

  
_“Edrychwch_ arnaf _!”_

  
A rough snarl from above, the tug on my hair is a language I can understand: _look at me!_

  
Opening my eyes, gazing into his hazel ones, piercing into my soul.  
I saw the void within him, the one caused by loneliness and pain; now, surely he has seen mine.

  
_“Rwy’n_ ei weld. _”_ he whispers, stroking my cheek. My hands pull him closer, fingers playing at his arse; they pull a moan from him as three push into his open, wet hole; Ben shoves deep down my throat and I try to time my fingering to his thrusts. I’ve just found another way to make him beg. God, he's so wet, still sticky with lube, open from me…

  
Ben takes my mouth, groaning, snarling in Welsh as I finger his arse harder, deeper in response; don't know what he's saying, but it's how he says it… with my fingers as deep as they'll go, he tightens and swells as I swallow, squeezing his arse as he thrusts, the last shocks going through him.

  
Above me, Ben moans softly, pulling out, stroking my face and neck as I regain my breath.  
“We should-”

  
“It can wait.” I sigh, pulling him close. “It can wait.”

  
“Sir… John…” Ben wriggles closer, wrapping himself around me. _“Dwi_ wedi syrthio mewn _cariad_ efo chdi _…”_

  
“Hmm?” I murmur.

  
“Doesn't matter.” Ben whispers, snuggling into me, drink and orgasm having its effect on both of us. He snuggles into my neck, his nose right against the skin.

  
We wrap our arms around each other, warm and sated, and the night rolls on.


End file.
